


It's Over Tonight

by Chemi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 23:37:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8422075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemi/pseuds/Chemi
Summary: He shouldn't be laying here in this dump considered a house, he should be perched on the sofa in their flat at 221B.He should be getting scolded by him for playing his violin at an ungodly hour in the morning.He should be lost in thought as he reads the paper, sipping off of his fresh tea.He should be there not here with a used needle sitting somewhere nearby.





	

Cold nipped at his sickly pale skin as his eyes fluttered open. The stained yellow ceiling glared down at him, reminding him of his mistakes.  
He sighed and let his tired eyes fall shut again.  
The drugs had worn off leaving him empty once again. Somewhere in the distance a church bell rang out into the rising sun causing a spark of....of....sentiment to flare up in his chest.  
He shouldn't be laying here in this dump considered a house, he should be perched on the sofa in their flat at 221B.  
He should be getting scolded by him for playing his violin at an ungodly hour in the morning.  
He should be lost in thought as he reads the paper, sipping off of his fresh tea.  
He should be there not here with a used needle sitting somewhere nearby.  
But John wasn't waiting for him at what was considered home. No, John was waking up in a comfortable bed next to his new wife. John wouldn't even spare Sherlock a thought, too busy enjoying post-wedding bliss...and he deserved that.  
Just as much as Sherlock deserved to be laying here in a worthless heap with scars throbbing across his back as a painful reminder.  
Sure they were healed almost completely, but for some reason the pain was still there. Phantom pains perhaps? Whatever the reason, the pain was somewhat welcome. It helped ease the numbness that had taken home in his bones.  
As much as the disgusting yellow ceiling taunted him, he knew this would be his housing for a while. He couldn't go to 221B.  
Not now.  
Not when he knew that the atmosphere of 221B would never be the same. It's air is void of the most important element; John. The sound of his blogger typing, making tea, reading the daily paper, making sarcastic remarks- Is this what John felt for those two years? Guilt flooded his groggy thoughts and he squeezed his eyes shut as if that would make everything stop.  
Those two years had been hell. Constant gun fire, running, hiding, exhaustion, tension, torture, and craving his 'chaotic' life in London.  
But things would never be the same. He hadn't slept in days- weeks- because each time his eyes closed and his brain relaxed he was back in Serbia. Pain. Blood. Screams. Broken whimpers. Familiar eyes watching before finally speaking up.  
Fuck.  
Sherlock sat up and frantically started searching his pockets for his relief purchase.  
His eyes were blurring and for some reason his hands were shaking violently.  
Punching. Kicking. Burning. Whipping. Waterboarding.  
The London air was gone.  
Heat caused sweat to drip down his damaged skin. He could feel each break in his skin, each breath hurt. Everything hurt.  
He tried to shift just slightly to relieve some aches in his muscles but ended up having to prevent a scream from sounding from his dehydrated mouth. Fresh blood started dripping from his newest wounds.  
Heavy footsteps echoed around him and he couldn't help flinching as a hand was placed on his shoulder. The person was saying something, but Sherlock couldn't process the words.  
His back erupted in white hot pain and this time he couldn't stop the scream of agony.  
The voice became more urgent.  
The heat started to dissipate as did the sandy air.  
"-rlock!"  
Sherlock's lungs were burning and it caused him to gasp, cool London air refilling his empty lungs.  
"Sherlock. You're in London. You're okay." The voice was right. He wasn't in Serbia. Mycroft had finally gotten him out.  
To his embarrassment a sob bubbled from his throat as tears painted his face.  
"It's okay. You're okay." The voice continued to sooth.  
Arms were wrapped protectively around him.  
Sherlock's sobs eventually quieted, leaving him with the increasingly familiar numbness.  
"Let's go home." The arms started pulling him to his feet.  
Everything was distant, not real.  
For the first time in his life, his mind was completely silent.  
He sat in his mind palace, the power out and the air so cold he could see his own breath. His body was wrecked with internal pain. He had never felt so lost before in his entire life and for a brief moment he wondered if it would have been better if he hadn't come back from Serbia.  
* * *  
"Sherlock. Come back Sherlock. I know you're in there. C'mon. Come back to me."  
The first thing he noted was that the ceiling was no longer that stained ugly yellow.  
He wasn't at the drug house anymore.  
A shudder rippled through his body and a warm hand was placed on his forehead.  
His eyes locked with the universe and he felt more tears flood his cheeks. Sentiment.  
"There you are." A half hearted smile, a steady hand cleaning his cheeks.  
"John?" His heart clenched.  
"Hey you git." John chuckled.  
"You shouldn't be here." Yes he should. Because this was their sofa in 221B and John belongs HERE. Not there.  
"How are you feeling?"Ah, of course his John would ignore that.  
His John.  
....John isn't his.  
"Hey don't you go locking yourself up in your bloody mind palace again." John's voice cut in.  
Sherlock sighed as his hair was played with, in an obviously attempt of calming.  
It worked. Of course.  
And for a second everything was okay.  
John was here and Sherlock was home and the drugs weren't in his system and the world around them didn't matter.  
"Stay." The word fell from his lips without permission.  
John's eyebrows furrowed.  
"Of course.... I.....Sherlock, I'm glad you're home. I can not stress to you enough that it is better you came home. I...I don't know exactly what they did to you in Serbia, but... I need you here."  
Sherlock swallowed past the lump in his throat.  
"How do you know about that?"  
John shook his head sadly, "You were mumbling earlier...and screaming. It's not hard to figure out...I mean I think I got the basics..."  
Sherlock sighed and raised a hand just to touch Johns cheek, to make sure he was real.  
"Can I see?"John whispered, not pressuring.  
Without a word, Sherlock sat up properly and shakily pulled off his shirt while wincing.  
Silence fell over Baker street.  
Professional hands ghosted over his back.  
"Oh Sherlock...I'm so sorry...."  
Sherlock turned to look at his best friend. His life.  
"Don't be. I'd do it again if needed."  
This time it was John who cried.  
"Shouldn't you be at home? With Mary?"Sherlock whispered as he was pulled into a tight embrace.  
John shook his head, tightening his hold.  
Sherlock sighed and allowed his head to rest against the warm shoulder.  
"I knew. I knew as soon as I couldn't find you last night that something was wrong. I've been looking for you all night."John rubbed soothing circles into the tallers back, avoiding the scars.  
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It was your wedding night. You should be with your wife."Sherlock tried to pull away but John made a noise of protest, not slacking his hold.  
"You're my best friend. You need me. When you 'died' all I wanted was for you to provide one more miracle. I might be pissed because I believed you dead for two years. But...I AM 100% glad you're here. Alive. I'm not going to watch you slowly kill yourself. Not again. I can't lose you again." John's voice broke and Sherlock tightened his hold on John's shirt.  
"Stay?"Sherlock whispered, but this time it held a different meaning.  
"Of course."


End file.
